Lily's Eyes
by Love and Rock Music
Summary: A Golden Age love triangle told in flashback. Peter marries the woman Edmund is secretly in love with; heartbreak, self-sacrifice, and betrayal ensue.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** This story explores the idea of a conflicting love interest between Peter and Edmund. Their relationship is so deeply bonded that betrayal seems ludicrous, so I decided to write up a scenario that would explain what sort of circumstances could lead to such an act. And yes, I know Lily is one of the most generic OC names ever, but I didn't pick it - it was pulled from the song "Lily's Eyes" from the musical adaption of The Secret Garden.

**Disclaimer:** Locales and characters original to The Chronicles of Narnia are trademarks of C.S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. This story was fan-written for no profit and no infringement is intended.

* * *

1. Prologue

"_Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself  
constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night._"

- Edna St. Vincent Millay  
_**  
**_

Rain was falling steadily outside. Edmund stood near the window, watching intently. This dull occupation, while slightly more entertaining than twiddling his thumbs, was beginning to wear on him. Why had he come to this party anyway? Ah, yes. It had been at his brother's insistence, with the argument that what better way to prepare for entering University next year than making new acquaintances? He had reluctantly agreed, and had come to regret it within thirty minutes of arriving. After being introduced to the hostess, Janet, and several more of Peter's friends, there was little else to do. Edmund was not very outgoing and did not make friends easily, and to be at a party where he didn't know anyone was a tad more than uncomfortable.

He glanced over at the other end of the room, where Peter was sitting with his friends. He was at the middle of the group and seemed to be telling some tale to the others. That was Peter; people gravitated around him even here. Edmund sighed. He knew his brother had meant well, but he was having less than an enjoyable time. Twice he had been called over to join them, but it didn't interest him in the least to be an outsider in conversation, the one person to whom all the jokes must be explained.

Instead, Edmund studied the window and the rain. The thunder and occasional flash of lighting almost seemed a slight mockery. If it wasn't for the storm they could have left hours ago, but they both knew better than to chance taking the car out when it was raining this hard. Earlier, lighting had struck a tree at the corner of the street, and the resulting tangled wires ended in an electric power loss. Lit only by candles and an electric torch or two, the tone of party had mellowed down, and people had dispersed into smaller groups to continue their conversations quietly.

He had wished to avoid it tonight, but in the strange quiet and with nothing else to engage his thoughts, his mind wandered to Narnia. Edmund did not recall it as it was now, ruled by Caspian's descendants, but as both a place and time forbidden to him: the Narnia he had known in his first lifetime, with its wild forests, rolling hills and deep blue mountains. Then, he had been a king; not some lonely outcast at a gathering but the gracious and merry host. His beloved land with its rolling green hills and deep blue mountains, talking animals, satyrs, centaurs, and all the rest. Edmund remembered festivals and the feasts, grand tournaments and glorious battles. Most of all, though, he thought of her.

Her name was Lily. He had loved her from the very beginning, from the minute he met her all those years ago. She was the image of perfection; an intelligent, breathtaking beauty. How he had longed for her, watched her and wished for her in secret! And even though she was sworn to another, he had broken faith with that which he loved and honoured most, and they had rushed to each other in unspent passion.

It was only now that he remembered it. Before he had he missed her as the dearest friend, for without the body of his twenty-four-year-old self, his mind had become like that of a child over again, and he forgot what it was to be a man. It was only after he had been told he was too old to return that he was old enough to remember. He woke at night from fevered dreams, reaching out to hold her body that was not there, swearing that he heard her breath in his ear. And later, he would lie awake and remember that in Narnia she was long dead, wonder what had become of her, and hope that she knew he would never have left if he had known it meant leaving her forever.

--

Peter finished his story, unsurprised at the laughter it prompted. The tale of his graceful slip on wet pavement, falling backward onto an Ancient History professor (who himself was very ancient) and scattering papers in six directions was always a popular request at parties. More popular were the others' laughter when they remembered the ornery professor's unusual punishment: in addition to picking up and sorting out the papers, he was made to stand outside for the rest of afternoon warning everyone who passed of the potential danger.

He settled back into the sofa, happy to just enjoy the company of those around him. Ordinary people, ordinary laughter. Peter had few experiences like this. The best of his memories were tainted by very great sorrow; but that, of course, was to be expected. He spotted Edmund out of the corner of his eye and felt a damper on his spirits. Sitting in the corner, moody and withdrawn, not talking to anyone. But Edmund was always that way – he stayed away from parties and friends, and in a large group he always seemed the textbook example of anti-social.

It was exactly the reason he had pushed so hard for Edmund to come out in the first place. He had barely any friends, and the ones he did have were never around all too often. What was he going to do when he got to University next year, where he wouldn't know anyone? Truthfully, Peter was worried about Edmund. They were getting older, and this was not how Peter had remembered it going the first time. In Narnia, Edmund had been confident and cheerful. He was even rowdier at parties; they both were. But this eighteen-year-old Edmund was serious as he had become in the last years of their reign.

As he continued to watch, only half-listening to the conversation, a young girl walked up to Edmund and began to chat with him. She had dark curly hair, and gestured with her hands when spoke. He tapped his friend Charlie on the shoulder and asked who she was.

"That's Mary, Janet's friend. I think she's a year ahead of us at school."

With a nod that bounced every curl on her head, she walked away to talk to the people bunched around the stairs. When his gaze moved back to Edmund, Peter was unnerved by expression on his face. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and his eyebrows were raised with the look of a man who had seen a ghost. Suddenly, his face shifted into an expression Peter hadn't seen Edmund wear in years, when it had been mature even for a man in his twenties. His brow was narrowed in thought, a mixture of guilt and yearning and mystery only just decipherable behind it. His mouth was set like it was during battle, steeled against some unnamed challenge. _That look. . ._ He had worn it before, borne the same unknown burden before, and Peter's memories almost seemed to fly before him, returning to the days when he reigned over his brother and sisters as High King.

--

Edmund was so immersed in his thoughts that he jumped when he felt a touch on his shoulder.

"Why are you here all by yourself?" said a voice behind him. He turned.

It was a girl. Edmund rose to his feet, starting to speak. "I – ah – just thinking –"

The words caught in his throat. He stood there dumbly, unable to do anything but stare at her. She looked to be a few years older than the age he appeared; curly black hair framed her face and she wore a politely puzzled smile. Clearly, she was hoping for some kind of response.

But Edmund was aghast. He tried to speak, but his tongue refused to obey him. In vain he struggled to get his wits about him – his mind was numb, dazed with disbelief and longing. The seconds lengthened but still he could only stare, his mouth agape in bewilderment.

_She had Lily's eyes._

Deep brown ringed in striking green, all shot through with gold. They flickered the candlelight, an aching familiarity. Edmund's insides wriggled unpleasantly. This is too strange, said the small part of his mind that wasn't arrested by the sight before him. _For me to be thinking of her, and now this girl. . ._ He wrung his clammy hands.

"Sorry," he mumbled, trying to think clearly. "I'm Edmund."

"Mary," she replied. She looked relieved that he had finally spoken. "I'm just telling everyone that they've got the fire going in the other room. We've got a tin of cocoa and one of tea, and biscuits. . ."

He flicked his own eyes toward Peter on the sofa, feeling the perpetual guilt squeeze in his chest, and returned them quickly to her face.

". . . and a few people were thinking of singing, you know, to cheer up the gloom of all this rain," she was saying.

It took him a moment to realise she had stopped talking. "Thanks," he said. "I – ah – might join you later."

She was staring at him curiously. "Are you all right?" she asked in a concerned voice.

_My face! It's showing on my face!_ Edmund quickly tried to compose his features, but it was a vain attempt and he knew it. He could never withstand beneath that gaze, even here.

"Fine – I'm fine – thanks - I'll see you later, then?"

She gave him an encouraging smile. Edmund detected a stab of pity – she seemed to have decided that he was only painfully shy. With a swish of her hair, Mary was gone.

--

A few minutes later the girl called Mary had made her way over to their sofa. "Hello everyone," she began.

Peter felt his jaw drop. Rich hazel shimmered before him. Those eyes. . . they were her eyes. The wide, unmistakable eyes that had known him so well. Eyes that he had fallen into so often; that drew him into their own private place where the trials and duties of his crown were left far behind.

He only caught a few of her words here and there. He heard "food," and "cocoa," and "fireplace," but they barely registered. He could not tear his eyes away from hers. They were the very same. She had Lily's eyes.

_Lily_. This Mary was nothing like her but for the eyes. His vision turned inward, and he recalled the curve of her mouth, the rich brown of her hair, the crinkled corners of her eyes when she was smiling. Beautiful, of course, but much more than only that. She was warmth and light. . . the comfort of his secret heart. And the way she spoke! A softness which invited confidence and embrace. Peter had been proud to vow to love her. He, who had never for a second considered taking a wife (although his countrymen desired it), had become husband to the most beautiful woman in the world. Contentment like – like he had never even imagined it.

Then they had been ripped from their world without warning. Had he known there would not be a good-bye, that the kiss that morning would be their last – he stopped himself. This was not the place to be thinking of it. She was dead a thousand years in the place he could not return to anyway. . . At night he woke covered in sweat, whispering her name into the darkness, hoping against hope that she could somehow hear him.

Now he understood what Edmund's look had been about. Peter was fairly sure he was now sporting the same one. Those eyes, those very eyes. . . Mary tilted her head as spoke, the hazel glinted in the little light. Peter was unable to look away. He could feel himself falling into them now, falling into himself, into his past. His shoulders straightened unconsciously. The story, at such an ill time, was coming before him like a living picture. As the room began to fade out and into his memories, he glanced at Edmund, hoping to communicate silently the wonder of this marvel. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and then Edmund looked away.

--

So that was it. Peter had seen them too, there was no denying it. Edmund knew exactly was running through Peter's mind now – the likeness was too identical to pass over. And though they never spoke of it, Edmund knew that Peter thought of her often. Of course he would: Peter was a man of pure heart, the most faithful lover even here. A fact that burdened Edmund over again, but it was only right. Her eyes held them both in a spell that extended far beyond the boundary of worlds. At night she haunted their dreams; when Peter came home from school and they had to share a room again, Edmund was awake to hear him call her name in turns of fitful sleep.

She was everything to him. To them both. Mary's eyes, so much like hers, had made his memories swim before him. The smell of her hair, the feel of her skin, and the wild, rash decision that had brought him into a happiness of which he would never speak and condemned him to live forever with the secret that consumed him.

The room and the party had vanished, melted away in the rain. His memories swirled around him like a breeze off the sunlit sea.

He could see her before him as clearly as the day he had met her.

* * *

**A/N: **For those of you wondering, this story was indeed inspired by the fabulous TastyAsItGets and her story The High King, the Duchess, and the Secret. It was actually propelled by one of her almost-but-not-quite Edmund cliffhangers, and born of a desire to give the man some action.


	2. The Golden Age

**A/N:** Here's the jump! Finally, two years after the initial posting, I've got the second chapter ready. Hopefully it will live up to all my hopes; diving into a whole story-world like this is really not my forte, and I'm pretty anxious about how it came out. Be warned, this chapter is mostly self-indulgent imagery, since I have wanted to create my own vision of Golden Age Cair for a very long time.

* * *

2. The Golden Age

"_Therefore does beauty, which, in relation to actions, as we have seen, comes  
unsought, and comes because it is unsought, remain for the apprehension and  
pursuit of the intellect; and then again, in its turn, of the active power._"

- Ralph Waldo Emerson  
_**  
**_

"Remind me why we must endure this every night, sister?"

He spoke through a smile that was quite forced. Years of diplomacy had rewarded him with the ability to master his facial expressions – a useful skill for any ruler, though his siblings were rarely fooled. He knew she would see that his grin was far from genuine.

At his arm, Lucy gave an amused chuckle. "Edmund!" she reproved, her own smile as natural as a nose on her face. "You know perfectly well. And these festivities are lovely. King Lune is a generous man, and only the more so when he is grateful for his entire country."

"It's not the parties," he replied. "I hold no objection against music or wine." Edmund winked at her, and then adopted a serious expression. "It's these ridiculous presentations. Opening each night thus? It seems rather useless when all present are well informed of our titles."

"Oh, Edmund," she sighed, in the way that only Lucy could. She fussed for a moment with a bunched-up fold in her gown. Without raising her eyes from the blue silk, she said, "You need not fret over the presentations; out here, Sir, you may heave a mighty sigh, but once within you will be given to the pleasure of the evening and forget your disposition."

Edmund frowned, because Lucy was very nearly right in her deduction. "Nonetheless," he said, "they make too much of us. I grow the more weary every night."

She smoothed her skirt over and stepped beside him again, straightening her shoulders. "It is the Archenland tradition, and you know it well. Kindness is never forgot and repaid tenfold over. These nights are all in our honour, and the presentations meant to show it."

Edmund opened his mouth to retort, but she continued, "Though I will admit extravagance in sending an entire court to Cair Paravel," she said, and he was pleased she could at least acknowledge that. After all, Lucy was not given to vainglory; she was quite humble herself, only her heart was too soft to put aside well-meaning praise.

"Merry-making until Peter returns, and a fortnight after? Perhaps a bit much. But it is such fun! Besides, only a fortnight itself remains until everyone comes home." She gave him her most endearing smile, which did little to affect his mood.

"Faugh! Another month of this! Their endless gratitude pains me more than the reason itself. And in the first place – "

"Shh!" said Lucy suddenly. "That's Tumnus now, the lord with the funny lisp always announces him. Are you ready?"

"As I shall ever be."

They turned to faced the curtained entryway, and Lucy threaded her arm through his own. An echoing voice reached them from behind the velvet. "_The brave and noble rulers of fair Narnia, that rushed at once to defend their sister Archenland, threatened under siege. Presented: His Majesty King Edmund, and her Majesty Queen Lucy!_"

There was a brief round of shouting and whistling before the blare of the trumpets drowned it out. Edmund plastered his smile even more firmly on his face, pushed aside the red curtain, and together they walked out into the dreaded applause and cheering. The Great Hall was simply stuffed with people. Arrayed in a splendid display of colours and fabrics, the entire Archenland court stood in deference to their entrance, clapping like mad. Edmund felt his eyes widen as he looked over the, counting the blurs of bright golds and blues, reds, gay yellows and greens – was it possible that the crowd had grown in number? _Of course_, he reminded himself, _word does travel, and they'd all want to come and pay proper tribute. It doesn't help there hasn't been this kind of celebration since the queen_.

Four years ago, King Lune had dismissed the majority of Anvard's courtiers after the death of Queen Ashel. Only the noble lords who were his closest friends had remained. This had made the Archenland court a rather more sombre place than in the past, and consequently sent Corin for an extended stay at the much livelier Cair Paravel when he came of age. The intention was to school the young prince in proper court and diplomatic procedure – though considering the incident in Calormen, Edmund was not quite sure he had set the best example.

But Corin was at home in Anvard now, with his newly restored brother, and all the Archenland gentry sent here in gesture of good cheer. For a court that been defunct for nearly five years, they had reassembled much more quickly than anyone had predicted: Cair Paravel had no more rooms to spare. The latest arrivals were staying in tents set up in the courtyards. All were happy to be reunited once again, not to mention grateful for Narnia's assistance in protecting their land – and they expressed it by responding each night with the same enthusiasm.

Edmund had time to reflect on all this, and still the cheering went on.

His words to Lucy had not been in jest. In truth, the nightly adoration was wearing thin on his patience. Edmund was the least tolerant of the four of them. Extensive praise always sat uncomfortably on his conscience – too much of it, and the old demons of guilt and betrayal flared up again. Though he had worked through those issues years ago, Edmund still made sure to maintain a healthy sense of humility. And quite aside from that, it was simply bothersome. Narnians themselves never seemed to tire of honouring their beloved monarchs. Encouraged by the Archenlanders and with a valid reason for commendation, they continued to cause enough good-hearted commotion to wake the dead.

All the endless applause buzzing around them. . . He let out a groan completely inaudible in the noise, but Lucy must have heard, because she said through her teeth, "Ed. . ."

Walking beside her, he could only register the barest bit of her face in his peripheral sight. However Edmund knew her well enough to guess at the expression hiding behind her golden curls, and his conscience smote him. Lucy was quite right. It was not respectful behaviour, unnoticed or not, and their enthusiasm only displayed the nobility and generosity of the Archenland people. _However tiresome and undeserved their gratitude may be_, he added to himself. And as a king ought to, he raised his chin and accepted their greeting with a quelling hand.

They reached the dais at last, stepping up to the raised platform with balanced ease. They did not move to take their seats at the High Table; the presentations would finish first, and then the dancing began, and afterwards the hall would be feasted.

The crowd had quieted, turning their attention to the opposite-end curtain from which Susan would emerge. Everyone, especially the young lords, looked excited. Edmund's impatience flared. _Ridiculous_, he thought. _As if they hadn't seen this ten times already!_

Susan received the most fuss in all the presentations, because with Peter away North with most of the army, she was eldest and therefore highest-ranking. Not to mention the many admirers with aspirations to court her, or the court ladies to whom Susan was rather a fashion plate.

"_And now, the great lady whose renowned beauty brought Calormen to its knees, and in whose honour our two kingdoms fought bravely against siege, presented: Her Majesty Queen Susan!_"

Cheers erupted in the Hall, seeming somehow even louder than they had been previously. Susan made her way towards the Table without an escort – something Edmund had insisted on the night of the first celebration. He had felt it quite inappropriate, considering the reason for celebration. He hardly thought any escort (besides himself or Peter) would reflect very well on his sister, as it was one of her suitors who had been responsible for the attack on Archenland to begin with.

Susan came to the dais at last, stepping lightly into her place at Edmund's left. Together, the three of made a deep bow to the guests assembled there. After this traditional acknowledgement had been observed, he called out and addressed the room, "Friends! Another night to revel in good food and company. May we toast, and dance, and feast to the honour of the free North!"

Following this formal welcome, which was a variation of the same address Edmund had delivered for the past fortnight, the orchestra began the music for the opening dance. He held his hand out to Susan. After so many years, it had practically become habit more than established practice.

As Lucy had predicted, Edmund forgot his impatience as soon as they began to move along with the music. Stress and annoyance melted away with the soft fluted notes, chirping chords of the lyres, and slow-beating kettledrums. Edmund counted music among his greatest pleasures. He was not a proficient himself; the trumpet was the only instrument he knew, and he had learned it during a battle campaign. Despite this he maintained an interest in music and performers. Cadons, the straight-backed Rabbit conductor, had been his selection for Official Court Musician.

Susan was a comfortable partner. All four of them were excellent dancers, thanks to several years of parties and festivals, but Susan was by far the best. She was possessed of a natural grace nearly equal to that of a dryad or naiad. Though she might have easily outshone him, she matched his speed and movement evenly, in balanced rhythm. Best of all, there was no need for the simple chatter that usually accompanied dancing with a new acquaintance. Edmund could not help noticing, though, the eyes of the young lords that followed Susan's graceful figure as she spun in his arms. He chided himself, realising what he was doing. _It's just all of the Rabadash business getting to me!_

He heard the clip-clopping of faun-hooves close behind him; it was time to switch partners. In a whirl of skirts and hair, Edmund was dancing with his younger sister, her face pink with enjoyment.

"Still sour, Brother?"

"No," he replied. "My displeasure rested solely in the role-call."

"Truly?" she asked with a teasing smile. "It seems that you perform merely as your duty requires you."

Offended, he spun her around and dipped her deeply, and said, "It does?"

She laughed. Tumnus and Susan sailed past, and Lucy stuck her tongue out at her friend. A grudging smile was the response, and Edmund asked, "What was that about?"

"Oh, I told him I could get you to dip me and he refused to believe it."

The dance ended; partners bowed to each other and they welcomed others to the floor. Remaining there was part of the responsibility of hosting, and Edmund took a few more turns around the floor as per expectation. He conversed mildly with the partners he had chosen, but dancing did not hold much interest for him tonight. After a fortnight of the same it had become almost a chore. This was one of the many reasons he missed his older brother: Without Peter it was double the paperwork and other expected tasks, including obligational dancing. As soon as there were two kings at Cair Paravel once more, everything would move much more efficiently (two weeks' worth of celebrating, and he had only entertained half of the ladies present).

Eventually he retired to the High Table, taking Susan's seat that he might be beside Lord Peridan. But his friend did not offer good conversation: Peridan had been the one to supervise the construction of additional tents in the courtyard, and was well sated with wine to ease the day's headache. It left Edmund to his own mind while he observed the other dancers remaining on the floor.

Susan was in arms of one of the young lords and Lucy was dancing with the Lord Colin. Looking over at the groups of promising young men, Edmund sighed. Narnia was doing very well for herself, which brought a certain amount of attention to all four of her young unmarried rulers. Both of the girls were of continued interest to suitors, and it meant an unending amount of trouble for himself and Peter, even without considering the latest difficulty with Calormen. Dozens upon dozens of men had come to Cair to treat for their hand since they had each come of age. And though for one reason or another each had been turned away, Edmund knew another diplomatic nightmare could well be in their future.

He watched his sisters choose new companions for the next song. With his older brother absent and the catastrophe that was Rabadash so recent, Edmund was compelled to be even more protective than usual. He was aware of this, so he tried shake the thoughts and let himself have a good time. But his eyes followed Susan and Lucy twirl, spin and leap, and he could not help but think on the subject.

_I am not against romantic conquests. But all four of us must be cautious. It is not only ourselves we risk in any venture – it's the whole country._

Sometime later the dancing ended, and Susan and Lucy came to take their seats at the High Table. Edmund claimed his own seat at the centre. When all four of them were together, he was usually placed at Susan's left, with Peter on her other side and Lucy furthest down. As it was only the three of them, Edmund sat with Lucy and Susan on either side. Lucy called for supper to begin.

Servers, heralded by the brass and drums that announced each new course, carried platter after platter of soups, fresh breads, fishes, sides of beef and venison, roasted vegetables and meat pies. Laughter and delighted exclamations echoed through the halls. Wine had been flowing all night, but now came the heartiest and richest red vintages: Narnian wines dark and sweet, Archenland wines sharp and strong, added to the beers, fruit brandies and honey wines already on the tables.

Peter lingered at the forefront of Edmund's thoughts, and he spent most of supper discussing plans for the High King's return. All of them – all of Narnia – were anxiously awaiting this. Susan, who planned most of the celebrations at Cair, including the last fortnight's revels, was arranging a great deal of further extravagance for his welcome. Though he tried, Edmund was mostly unsuccessful at dissuasion.

The night's showcase began once dessert had finished. Each evening, the Hall featured some kind of entertainment; Narnian players, musical troupes, or poetry recitations. Sometimes Edmund missed the lone minstrel that played during ordinary suppers – though it seemed quite long ago that the castle hadn't been hosting guests, either Archenlander or Calormene. Lucy was the one to arrange the performers, so it was always interesting to watch, at the very least.

Tonight there was a group of Dryad dancers. They swept elegantly onto the floor followed by their Faun accompanists, who trooped in bearing hand drums and pipes. The Fauns sat as a cross-legged line with their instruments in their laps; and the Dryads posed their bodies into one mass of curves and arches. There was a beat of silence, in which the room raised their cups of wine in salute, and then the dancing began.

It was well worth watching. They writhed as one, twisting and conforming in angles around each other. Each performer was perfectly co-ordinated, each step seamlessly timed. Their lithe bodies moved in exact synchronisation: bending and leaping over and around each other, flying across the marble, moving faster and farther in each bound. As they leaped, sprigs of moss flew out into the air.

They finished on a beat of ringing silence. The Hall rose to their feet and applauded loudly, toasting their cups in appreciation. Though he was aware of the slight irony, Edmund went enthusiastically along with the others. The Dryads had managed to top the Ostrich crooner from the night before, and he had been very good.

After this, the orchestra began playing again (the musicians had finished their supper and returned to their instruments), usually the slower and softer songs to finish the night with. There were fewer courtiers dancing now; people milled about and mingled, couples wandered out to the balconies to stargaze, and others were still drinking and laughing. Edmund was sitting at one of the smaller tables now, with Lord Darrin, who had fought beside him in the battle at Anvard.

"My lord, if you told me that Archenland was emptied of people, I would not be quick to disbelieve you," said Edmund.

Darrin laughed. "Not all have come, but many. This is hardly a celebration to miss."

That's certainly true, Edmund thought wryly. Though many had departed for the night, the hall was far from empty. He glanced around; Susan was dancing again, Lucy was laughing as she chatted to the Dryad performers, Lord Peridan was having an extravagant conversation with a highly amused Hedgehog. It was the Narnian court at its liveliest. And Edmund was enjoying himself, even if he was loath to admit it aloud.

He looked at Darrin. "But I have wondered why, in his great joy, King Lune would discharge the last of his court and welcome his son without many days' great feasting."

"Ah, your Majesty, Prince Cor is so recently of humble circumstance. I believe King Lune sought to first receive him in smaller comfort. There is, I think, a wisdom to delay the full court and all our carousing."

Edmund quite agreed with this. He liked Cor very much, but the boy was new to his station and not at all at ease with the attention given over him. To Edmund such praise was merely bothersome, as he had known it to be the way of things all his life. It would be much worse for someone who was new to the extravagant lauding that came along with ruling so gracious a people. Cor, who was very modest and unaccustomed to court life, would need a bit of adjusting.

"It will be quite a welcome for Peter," he said, chuckling. "I do not think he expects such company awaiting him."

"Indeed," said Darrin, and then noticed someone over Edmund's shoulder. He rose from his chair. "Your Majesty, are you acquainted with Lady Lily, from our mountain towns?"

Another courtier, another introduction. Edmund stood to face the lady, who had made her curtsey before he had turned around. He studied the brown curls of her bowed head, trying to place them, while Lord Darrin spoke the words of formal introduction. "King Edmund, may I make known to you my dear friend, Lady Lily Parvum. She arrived in Narnia only yesterday."

Edmund rummaged through the catalogue in his mind; if she was from one of the noble Archenland houses, he might already know her, and a stately greeting would not do. This was the problem with being a king; one met so many people that it was very difficult to keep names and faces together.

But then she raised her head, and Edmund realised he would not have forgotten one so fair. He paused in his breath, taken in by the full sight of her.

She was a great beauty, that much was clear from first glance. He noted small details – brown hair, a soft smile, the graceful curve of her neck – only to forget them the instant he looked into her eyes. They were most extraordinary. A perfect blend of hazel, green and brown and gold at the same time. How long was he lost in them? It could have been years that he fell through those eyes: Every thought was gone from him; they were twin magnets drawing him in, closer and closer.

He stared into her eyes and felt as though he had known her all his life. An involuntary smile pulled at his lips, and some warmth in the hazel-green seemed to acknowledge the same feeling.

The irrationality of it astounded him. He did not know this woman; they had been introduced only moments ago. Yet his body resonated with total certainty, _She is for me. I will seek no other, for I have found all the love I need._

Words had utterly deserted him. Edmund stood, amazed at this lady, but even more amazed at himself and the reaction she had summoned from him. Still he could not look away from those eyes.

With great effort, he turned from her face and tried to recover himself. Suddenly everything was in motion – Edmund could hear the people and music properly again. He realised the uncomfortable edge to their conversation, for Lady Lily and Lord Darrin were still waiting for him to complete the introduction.

Edmund experienced a moment of frustration. Where had his years of attentive negotiating gone? He had conversed with nobles and diplomats all his life; why should this lady give him pause? There seemed to be no rational answer.

The silence stretched on. Court manners called for him to end the unrest; he knew he must act. In desperation, Edmund reached for a last resort that laid at the back of every party conversation. He bowed and, without a word, offered his hand. She accepted it and Lord Darrin bowed also, leaving to some other entertainment. Edmund exhaled. Half the problem solved, albeit the far simpler one.

He led her to the floor, his mind still stumbling over what had occurred.

_What has happened to me? An hour ago I was composed. How can this one lady, alone of the rest, arrest all thought and rob me of my tongue?_

They danced, and danced as Edmund had never danced before. There was no faltering or hesitation; none of the reserved stiffness that inhibited new acquaintances. She was as comfortable a partner as Susan. To Edmund this was the most incredible of all. She fitted into his arms as if moulded for their shape, and her figure – but he realised this was exaggeration on his part. He had paid no mind to these things in the past. All the same, he could not stop himself from thinking this way.

They did not speak, which was unusual, but swept silently and effortlessly across the floor. Edmund was grateful that dancing was such an ingrained skill. He navigated through the other partners without quite seeing them, entranced by the strange beauty of her eyes. They held him spellbound until she spun away. . . only to catch her in his arms and be captured over again. All the while questions swirled within his mind, jumbled and unanswered.

When it ended, she dropped his hands and curtseyed again: a parting as the beginning. He did not bow in return, but watched her skirts disappear away – emerald green, he noticed only now. And still the music played and the other couples danced on, but Edmund stood motionless at the floor's centre, wondering what had befallen him.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, deep breath. I can't believe I finally updated this! Hopefully it wasn't too boring (things tend to pile up when you keep adding over the years). Any feedback would be most appreciated.


	3. Whence Comes My Content

3. Whence Comes My Content

"_Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, __but falling in love  
with you I had no control over._"

- C. S. Lewis  
_**  
**_

Edmund had been a light sleeper for as long as he remembered. Perhaps it was something honed after years of sleeping in the field; he never slept for very long, and he always woke well before sunrise. He liked the grey and quiet of the morning. Edmund was one given to long hours of meditation, and he found dawn the perfect time for it. There was nothing to disturb him; no tasks or duties, no subjects or servants, no siblings. Only himself, alone with his thoughts. For many years now it had been his habit to lie back and consider the day as it came into light.

Edmund possessed a rather unique view over his bed. The usual stone of Cair was inlaid with wooden panels, intricately carved by the best artisans of Narnia. Several different scenes and figures were worked into the polished grain. Like most Narnian art, themes of trees and rivers ran repeatedly through, crossing over with many creatures: badgers and cats, foxes and fauns, horses and centaurs. The centre of the ceiling depicted an elaborate battle scene based upon his own victory at Beruna.

Susan had commissioned it for his fifteenth birthday. She had said of her gift, "You never sleep soundly, Edmund, lying awake with all your thoughts. There might at least be something interesting to stare at."

So found many mornings and nights of the intervening years – Edmund lying on his back, arms behind his head, eyes roaming over the wood while his mind turned over the tasks he needed to complete; plans, people, laws, ideas. So found him now, thinking of that which had dominated his thoughts for the last week.

He had seen little of Lily in the days following their introduction, but it did not matter. She was never far from his thoughts. The absurdity of his own reaction was alarming, to say the least. A puzzle that remained unsolved in spite of his own effort was an experience only vaguely familiar to Edmund. As was his nature, he had even wondered if she deliberately sought to cause the strong reaction.

Nothing in her demeanour had suggested that had been her design, but it was wise to look for it anyway. She would not be the first. There were some ladies, of which Edmund and his brother were unpleasantly aware, who came to court with the intention of ensnaring one of the kings of Narnia. These were even more troublesome than the suitors that came for Susan and Lucy. A suitor, at least, must always be frank and open with his intention. Women admirers had no such social restriction. They were free to use every charm and coy word available to them, in order to elicit a declaration of courting from the man intended. They were a most unpleasant burden.

But Edmund had detected no such purpose in her. This Lily had captured him, then, without conscious effort. It made his feelings even more a mystery. As much as Edmund disliked the thought of bending to the will of another, he would have much preferred it to the unexpected force she had summoned forth. And she held him still in her grasp! Even if he had managed to avoid her in the evenings, his thoughts were overrun with musings about her: her character, her dancing, her mind. The bright hazel of her eyes persisted.

What sort of person lay behind them? Eyes were the windows of the soul, according to the poets, and Edmund wondered what soul would be so captivating, so changing. He struggled to find a way to put his confusion into words. It crossed his mind occasionally; love, the name of such a feeling. . . he usually dismissed it. The idea was ridiculous. How could one love without reason? So still his mind turned, as he wondered what to make of her, this strange and beautiful woman.

But there was not much free time for lengthy contemplation. Though he and Lucy had been home at Cair Paravel for the last fortnight, Edmund was still attending to the work that had accumulated in the month he and Susan had spent in Calormen. All four of them shared the duties of the monarchy, but Edmund took responsibility for the bulk of the paperwork and recording keeping, and there was much to sort through. And once Peter returned from the North everything would be sorted a third time, depending on which documents were approved by the High King. Nearly every surface in his study was covered in piles of parchment.

It was there he spent his mornings, closeted up with pen and ink and the occasional headache. Tedious work, to be sure, but the sort that Edmund enjoyed: answering letters, approving smaller laws, drafting propositions. It was pleasant enough with the windows open to catch the breeze. He sometimes heard voices and laughter drifting up from the gardens, where the visiting courtiers often spent the day hours amusing themselves. But it was not very distracting: Edmund was a master of focus, and his spare hours (well, had there been any) would be whiled away in the cool, dusty library.

Of course there wasn't time for that: After his work in the morning he had to appear at formal lunch. Unlike breakfast, which the three of them took privately, the midday meal was extended to some of the guests staying in the castle. Typically it included closer friends of Susan and Lucy's choosing. In the afternoon he had audiences and appointments, sometimes in the throne room with his sisters or privately in one of the drawing rooms. And then, each evening, there were the feasts that lasted through the night.

It was well and rich and good, but Edmund was growing weary of the pattern all the same. He missed the quiet and peace of an empty castle. Life at Cair had stalled, it seemed, into a routine build around their Archenland guests and anticipation for Peter's return. He hadn't had a night to himself in ages. Edmund couldn't remember the last time he went riding on his own, and he had hardly picked up his sword since returning from Anvard. There hadn't been a casual lunch out on the balcony in ages.

The days were rushing past. The only time he had for his own was indeed the early morning. He gazed up at the forest scene above him, eyes roving the wood, thinking of her, Lily, once again. But as always, the sunrise arrived too fast for much thought. . .

"Have you any names for the list? Edmund?"

He refocused his eyes and looked across the breakfast table. Lucy was a few chairs down, with a blueberry muffin in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other, and she was looking at him quite as if she were expecting an answer.

Edmund glanced downward. He was holding half a slice of toast, and couldn't remember buttering it. In fact, he hardly remembered coming down to breakfast at all.

"Mmm?"

"The _list_, Edmund, of the friends asked to stay on once the court returns to Anvard. Where are your wits this morning?"

He sighed. "Will you never tire of all the fuss? There's not been a supper without formal dress all season."

Lucy raised her eyebrows. "The lavish customs of the Calormene court were not treated upon us all, brother. Cair was quiet through the summer. And I see little harm in having a few stay behind now."

"Nor do I," said Susan absently from the end of the table.

"Besides," said Lucy, with an air of finality, "they'll only be here until Chestival."

"That's more than a month away!" he exclaimed.

Neither of them answered. Susan went on sipping her tea and Lucy was eating her muffin in determined silence. With a sigh, he gave it up for lost. Peter's absence made it two against one; there was nothing more he could argue. And even if Peter _were_ home, he had never been able to refuse the girls anything.

Lucy smiled. Wordlessly, Edmund held out his palm and she handed him the parchment over the table. He scanned the list swiftly.

There were only a few names, to his relief. Susan's friend Lady Bela; the jolly Lord Florris; Selinah, Lucy's favourite of the daughters of Lady Peronell; and Lord Merick, who was a great teller of tales.

His eyes fell on the empty space beneath the last name. _Do you have any names for the list, Edmund?_

The thought gave him pause. A name? There was one, perhaps. . . Hazel flashed through his mind. The desire to know her was still as strong as ever.

But to ask her to stay? That was impossible. They were the merest acquaintances only. He recalled his foolishness when they had met: He had not spoken a word to her. And though she may remain a constant presence in his thoughts, the reality was that they had had no interaction during the last week. If there _were_ a connection to be felt, Edmund at least understood that it was of his own making, within his own mind.

Through the afternoon he tried to consider it. Would he ask her to remain in the castle, a request intimating more than acquaintances? It did not constitute a declaration of courting, but there was a certain implication. What if she were offended by perceived forwardness? Perhaps it was best to stay away again.

But the truth persisted. He did not not wish to stay away; he wanted to understand the way she had affected him. It was the reason to ask in the first place! Edmund was very good at reading others, but this was a skill that required time, precisely worded questions and careful observation of the face. During their single encounter none of those had been possible. Was it possible to ask for more time, and imply nothing?

That he even needed such consideration was bothersome in itself. Edmund was no coward, but to avoid speaking to her was practically tantamount.

Frustration abounded. _I do not fear this woman! And I shall prove it, if only to myself. I _will_ speak with her, and discover her character and design, if there is one to find._

And so the resolution was formed. It was another evening that whirled by; to Edmund it seemed that no sooner had their names been announced that they were calling for the first course of the banquet, and that he took one bite of supper only to be on his feet applauding the poetry recitation. His mind could focus only on the prospect of speaking with her once again.

When the music began the second half of the night, and Lucy and Susan were engaged elsewhere, Edmund rose and sought her out. She sat alone at a vacated table, surrounded by half-empty cups of wine – her companions had wandered away. He offered no words, but she seemed not to expect any. She accepted his outstretched arm without any words of her own.

They did not go to join the dancing. Edmund walked the length of the Great Hall, through the open doors to the marble quay. They sat on the stone benches that lined the balustrade and stared at one another.

"Tell me all your story," he asked, after a pause. "For I have wondered it from when first we met."

A strange look flashed across her face. Edmund wondered if his suspicions had been correct, and his behaviour when they were introduced had made her to believe him a simpleton. The idea was rather alarming.

_Of course_, he consoled himself, allowing for a bit of pride, _my reputation contradicts that conclusion. Did I not lead the charge at Anvard?_

He shook the thoughts away and focused on her, now. Her first words had already escaped him.

". . . not much to tell, your Majesty. I was a member of Queen Ashel's court in the years before her death, and afterwards I returned home."

"Where is home, my lady?"

"Tilamon, in the mountains. I was named for the lilies that grow there."

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing them."

"Few have, your Majesty. It is quite remote."

This kind of conversation, the same that he had exchanged with nearly every courtier acquaintance over the last three weeks, was exactly the talk Edmund did not wish to hear. He had listened to enough of it to last a lifetime, for one thing; and for another, it told him nothing of value.

He studied her face. Was there any hidden meaning there?

But if there were he could not find it. Resigned to the small subject, Edmund answered, "They say the Archenland range is one of the most beautiful in the world."

"So say many, who have seen our summers." She looked at him. "If your Majesty should wish to travel there, we be would grateful to receive you and yours."

Edmund wondered if the offer was sincere. Courtiers often made such invitations upon them, if only to boast that the Kings and Queens of Narnia had visited their estate.

"That would be a great honour, my lady."

The conversation stalled. Edmund looked away from her, desiring to speak on better topics. He peered out at the beach below, where pairs of lovers wandered along the shore.

Silence stretched between them. Edmund stubbornly ignored the nudges of proper conduct – she _would _be made to speak first. He waited, listening to rush of high tide and the echo of music from the Great Hall. When it had gone on long enough to stamp out the stubbornness he experienced a small panic. Suddenly, Edmund could think of nothing to say.

He looked across at Lily, only to meet her returning gaze. His stomach gave an unexpected jolt.

_Excellent_, thought Edmund wryly. _She makes of me a mute and a fool, and now palpitations. What next from this woman?_

She spoke then, and her voice in the silence was quite as jarring as any palpitation.

"The sea is such a wonder to me," said Lily. "My home lies far inland. I have seen it only once before now."

"Truly?" replied Edmund, without keeping the surprise from his tone. In a moment he had checked himself, annoyed that he should even need to do so; he never spoke a word without forethought, and yet here. . .

"Forgive me. I forget that few others have the privilege of sailing to world's far corners." He frowned, thinking of what had gone over in Tashbaan. "There are times I wish I were among them."

"But your Majesty is fortunate to have it. I have seen so little of the world; I hardly know it." She glanced down. "I hardly know myself."

After a moment, Edmund answered, "I know myself, but I do not always like him."

It was hard to tell, but it seemed that she was blushing. Somehow this made Edmund feel more at ease. He asked her, "Do believe that one must travel to form his identity?"

"I believe so, your Majesty. You cannot know something without knowing its opposite," she said, sounding very profound. But then she smiled. "At least, that is what the stories say. I have not travelled much beyond the pages of books."

He returned the smile easily. "When I was thirteen, Peter and I spent a year of service aboard the _Ardent Majesty_. We learned everything – sailing, navigation, trading. . . It was a broadening experience, certainly, to be sailors instead of kings. Afterwards we were greatly given to appreciate life in the Cair."

Memory shifted as he gazed out into the waves. Edmund remembered the time as one of the best of his youth. Away from their royal duties, he and Peter breathed in the fresh salt air and felt like ordinary boys, without the great duties that rested on their shoulders. They slept in hammocks, became sun-browned and muscled, learned to drink and to fight well without a sword.

"Your Majesty's brother is very dear," she remarked softly, bringing him sharply back to earth.

Edmund was growing irritated. It was very unlike him to forget himself in conversation, particularly in the the presence of _this_ lady. Why, when first they met she had commanded his every thought and movement! Yet as they spoke now – new acquaintances only – his mind wandered easily, recalling the sunny days of his boyhood. He might as well be sated with rum in front of Lucy's fireplace, for all the good formality he was possessing.

Belatedly, he remembered she had asked of Peter, and supplied the same answer as he always had.

"I know no greater man than he."

With a start, Edmund realised he hardly given Peter a thought – beyond anticipating his return – since he had met Lily. _Well, surely Peter would understand, for a woman such as this_, he reasoned, and chuckled to himself.

"Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"None, your Majesty. I am my parents' only child. Properly, I should use my father's title at court. . ."

And so it began. They spoke of her family, of his, of the Stand at Anvard and the foolishness of Rabadash, of Cair Paravel and what she thought of it. Her voice was smooth and pleasant; it was easy to hear, but also easy to forget to listen to the exact words.

Sometimes, to his repeated frustration, he stumbled in the words, entranced again. Moonlight did strange things to her eyes. But he managed to keep his head most of the time, and Edmund carried his side without too much difficulty. He was glad to indulge the unexplained fascination with her life and story, with the way she spoke. He learned a great deal, and not only from what she said.

She did not speak with her hands, as Lucy did, but he found her smile just as catching – perhaps more so. She did share some of Susan's gestures – the tilted head, the curved shoulder – but they were harder to read, different from those he knew well. She spoke most with her eyes. They glittered in the moonlight, a strange flickering in the hazel, saying things that Edmund did not always understand.

They talked until faint light grew along the horizon. To Edmund it seemed a short time, and when propriety pushed for him to end their conversation, he felt that he had accomplished very little. But he obliged it, reluctantly, and rose to accompany her to the tents.

"I fear that I have kept you from a night's rest."

"No fear at all, your Majesty. What for the day but to sleep away the pleasures of the night?"

It sounded like another pleasantry, but Edmund thought he saw sincerity in her eyes. She smiled and his stomach gave another strange leap. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

They went around the south end of the castle, and cutting between the orchard and the gardens. Edmund was feeling very queer. His whole body was focused on the warmth of her arm in his – but his thoughts refused to settle. They shifted between different images, back and forth between the ocean waves, the sparkle of her hazel eyes, and the mountain sunsets he had imagined as she described them. Their earlier conversation seemed to swirl around him: echoes of words, both his and hers.

_Am I going mad?_ It seemed the only plausibility at this point. Edmund had reached a new level of inner turbulence, and he could think of no answers to his own questions.

The tented courtyard rose like a little village. It was an impossible maze, made up of mismatched sizes and colors – festival canopies bright and sweeping, the square tents meant for the army, and some that the Archenlanders had brought with them.

When they reached the border of these, she curtseyed and thanked him for entertaining her. Edmund bowed in return, thanking her for the pleasure of her company.

Silence again. Edmund looked and saw, perhaps for the first time, her whole person instead of just the eyes. Lily was smiling. She gestured around them, to the rosebushes and willow trees and coloured tents, and Cair Paravel towering above them, strung with lights. "This all is such beauty and gaiety," she said. "Already I am sorry to leave it, with near a month left to us."

Words leapt in his throat – _Consider that you may stay, my lady, and partake in Chestival with us_ – but he swallowed them down. The time was hardly right to make that offer.

And so Edmund bade her goodnight, and she him. He felt a strange stirring as he watched the back of her. But he dismissed it, and went to seek his sisters in the Cair. There he spent the night's remainder attending to his duties, dancing and talking and entertaining. But all the while that strange feeling persisted; the image of her eyes stayed with him even as he danced with Susan and Lucy. Somehow – if it were possible – he already missed her company.

The following night, Edmund faced the curtain with a heart light in his chest. Another evening to spend in her conversation was a thrilling prospect; this time, perhaps, they might dance again. . .

These feelings seemed broadcast at least to Lucy, always intuitive in her way. She peered up from his arm.

"There is something different in your face, Edmund. Look at his smile," she said to the others. "It is fuller."

"Can a man not be happy?" he asked, but Lucy did not answer.

* * *

**A/N: **I hated this chapter, but it went where I needed it to go. Romantic cheese is not my forte and we've really got to swallow a lot of it here. Better and more exciting stuff is to come – Peter will take over as narrator for a while. A huge thanks to rthstewart and Metonomia for being so encouraging, and to all my readers, who are wonderful.


	4. The High King and the Countess

4. The High King and the Countess

_"In every man's heart there is a secret nerve that answers to the vibrations of  
beauty."_

- Christopher Morley  
_**  
**_

Cair Paravel glinted over the hill and his heart lifted. In all his years, Peter had never yet been so glad to see it. He had been away for – how long now? – more than half a year. The Festival of Blossoms, the berry harvest, the Midsummer Festival; how he had longed for it all! To be apart from all that he loved so mightily. . . Even the thrill of battle had lost some of its pleasure. And now to be back again, with the smell of summer's end in the air – in time for the autumn harvest and the Festival of Leaves – could not bring more joy to a man's heart.

Just the march itself was a great pleasure. The landscape of the north was not enjoyable; even in high summer it was grim and grey. To ride in among the greenery, with flowers and ripe fruit around them, was already a reward. The morning was fresh, bright; all the world seemed to tingle with promise.

Their party was returning flush with victory. He and Edmund had been together on the front summer last, and were most successful at the campaign's fist half, returning to winter comfortably in the Cair. Peter led the army to return in spring, this time without his brother, who had stayed behind to accompany Susan to Calormen (a good thing, as it turned out). This second campaign was shorter than the first; though perhaps in longer taking than if Edmund had been with him – but never mind. Home was on the horizon. There, awaiting him, were his family and friends and all those dear.

When they were within three hours' march to home, Peter left the army in the hands of his capable generals and turned his horse off the lane. He galloped through thick fields, east across where the road had curved south-east. The destination was a certain ancient pine. He could see it now, even among the morning mist: Lucy was beneath its low-slung branches, with her arms open wide. She waved and smiled, calling his name, and Peter urged his steed faster.

This had been their tradition for many years. By the aid of her bird-scouts, Lucy knew to find him in the forests, and rode out to greet him before he arrived at the castle. She had done so since his first single-led challenge. It was one of the best things he could see; his youngest sister waiting to receive him in smiles; true indication that he was, indeed, home at last.

"Peter!" she cried, as he dismounted and secured the reins in the swiftest manner possible. Then he rushed at Lucy and kissed her – she laughed at the scruff of his face – and allowed herself to be embraced and swung about. Only once they were both dizzied did he set her down again.

"Have you grown taller, my lady sister?" he asked. Of course she hadn't. Lucy was twenty-one and as tall as she would be, though that was not very tall. It was an old question that had carried over from childhood. Now it was only a fond routine, which they liked to recite after a long separation.

"I have, my lord," she said seriously, "a whole foot. Or else you have grown a foot smaller."

There was a brief moment in which they looked upon each other, daring to be first to break the game. It ended in a draw. Peter laughed and so did she, and he loved the sound of it – how much he had missed her laughing! Lucy covered him in kisses again, ceding victory.

There was only half an hour to be had before the marchers caught up. They spent it laughing and catching up; he outlined the important moments of the charge, and detailed the wounded which would require her care. Thankfully there were not many of those. Edmund had planned the offence well; they had not lost too many of their number, yet managed to affect much of the other side. Lucy questioned him about their friends and advisors, and noticed the newest scar that he had tried to disguise behind his hair. When time was up, she kissed him yet again before mounting her horse.

"There is a great surprise awaiting you, my lord," she told him. "One for the stories, though Edmund has abused it well these past fourteen days."

"Only a Calormene for a brother-in-law could displease me. Nothing of the sort?"

"Nothing," Lucy promised. "This one hails from Archenland." She rode off without another word, leaving him to ponder what might be his welcome.

Alas, anything he had imagined was far outmatched by what was there. Two hours later he rode through the gates at the head of his army, and was met with a second: this one, an army of courtiers. Peter could think of no way to describe it. The grounds were simply flooded with people; the crowd extended in every direction but the one from which he had come. All was a great blur of colour and shape and motion. And from this mass came a cheering – meant as a greeting, but sounding far more similar the roaring of some formidable monster.

Even for a High King, it seemed rather more than necessary.

The three whom he had missed most stood centre of the madness. Edmund, grinning widely with eyebrows raised; Lucy, laughing as always; and Susan, wearing such a tender look that his heart ached to see her.

This time Peter left his horse without a second thought, trusting for some squire to attend to it. He went directly into the arms of his beloved sister. Susan embraced him tightly, sparing the whisper, "Welcome, brother." She was weeping – a thing he hated mightily – but forgave after so long a separation. Around them the crowd shouted and gave applause, but it mattered not; Peter hardly heard them. Susan's black hair swung around them and he felt gladder than anything.

They broke apart at last, that he may greet Lucy and Edmund. To his youngest sister he gave a show that would not indicate their early meeting. Edmund, his brother, was embraced without any words exchanged; they had never needed any in moments such as this. Around them, the courtiers sighed and shouted.

"What have you done, Susan?" he called, gesturing to the waves of people that had not yet quieted.

She came to stand at his side. "The doing was not mine, my lord."

"King Lune's," said Edmund. "A gesture – "

" – kind and gracious," said Lucy sternly. "They're to stay a fortnight, to welcome you in revelry. Are you quite surprised?"

"Verily," he said, smiling down at her. "Two courts in the Cair. . ." he mused, and looked properly around for the first time. A myriad of tenting was visible in the southern courtyard. "Is there a room for me?"

"Perhaps," said Susan, smiling herself.

With so many assembled, both Narnian and Archenlander, it was appropriate for Peter to deliver an address. But he was worn and weary, and only half an hour returned; he wished for rest and very small company. It was a rare thing for him to do, but on this occasion Peter indulged. He deferred his speech of greeting for the evening, and with the briefest words of thanks, turned to the great doors that offered the solace of home.

The stone halls of Cair were an embrace of welcome over again. It a comfort he had missed greatly, let alone the company that inhabited them. Being away from Edmund and the girls was not particularly enjoyable; though at times he desired solitude, such separation was most unpleasant over a period of months. He missed Lucy's cheering presence, Susan's soothing voice and practical advice, and especially in battle, his brother fighting at his side. And much apart from being lonely without his siblings, he had most concerned when the news of the Stand at Anvard had reached the camp.

Peter had been not an hour in his own chambers before Lucy came upon him again, desiring a longer visit, followed shortly by Susan, in the name of seeking her sister. The three of them settled upon the sofas in his study, and Peter was glad for the private company – particularly after he was received in such numbers.

They passed the rest of the afternoon together. Edmund, who was overseeing construction of the soldiers' tents in the northern courtyards, did not join them, but his sisters made him very great cheer as they chatted and exchanged news. They spoke of plantings and harvests, the Midsummer Festival, and of course retold the foolishness of Rabadash once again. Peter had heard the tale regaled in three separate letters from his siblings, but to have it told in laughter was still a welcome thing.

"Ah, the fool," he lamented, taking a deep draught of his wine. "I have half a will to lead the forces into Calormen on the morrow."

"You could not duel an ass, brother," said Lucy, but Susan's expression clouded. Peter leaned forward and took her hand in his.

"Think no more on that ill-fated union, my sister. What rush is there to wed?"

From the table Lucy said, "Only to ease the hopes of our people."

"And how many hoped to align with Rabadash and his?" he answered. "How many now, after the prince struck at Anvard?"

Lucy laughed. "You were one of those, Peter. In the spring tournaments you could speak aught but good of him."

"Yes; but even then I had no wish to lose Susan to the South." He spoke more to Susan herself than to Lucy, and received a grateful smile in return. "You would do to remember, sister," he added over his shoulder, "that I have never sought to sell you for an alliance."

"You have not, my lord, and for this I cannot tease you further." said Lucy, and her blue eyes sparkled.

Later when Lucy left to attend to some business, Peter made his offer once again.

"If you should wish it, Susan, I will teach an even stricter lesson not only to the Prince, but to his regiments and the regiments of his father."

But Susan told him, "Oh, brother, you have no need. The Tisroc has already claimed ignorance in the actions of his son."

"It is likely that he did know of them," Peter countered.

"You may leave it, my lord. Aslan settled his fate in a manner most fitting to his pride."

Peter sighed, and leaned into the cushions that still felt wonderful to his weary back.

"I am sorry he did not love you as you deserved, sister."

Susan gazed at him from the other end of the sofa. "I am sorry too," she said, and her expression was less sad than it was resigned. But something in her voice made him pause and wonder if, perhaps, she was concealing a deeper heartache. The thought greatly displeased him.

Though Lucy had spoken truth, he did not wish for Susan to feel a pressure to marry. There _was_ a duty to the crown to produce heir, but it was not a pressing matter, at least in the present. And he did not want to force an union upon any of his siblings. They were young yet. In any case, Rabadash alone offered several reasons to approach marriage suits with a cautious eye. Privately, Peter was uncertain if he would ever take a wife. What need did he have for one? There were Lucy and Susan to give women's counsel. Narnia did not suffer for lack of his own wife.

He put it out of his mind. That night, Peter dressed in fine clothes for the first time in many months. The narrow circlet carried to the wars had been discarded; he wore his crown and the antique sword, solid gold and useless in battle, that was saved for such formal occasions. They waited with their higher lords in a small tent near the North Tower.

"No complaints tonight, brother?" Lucy was saying to Edmund. "For you shall suffer through even longer presentation, now the High King is returned to us."

Peter slung an arm around his brother's shoulder. "Have you tired of the wearisome customs of court, brother? Perhaps you now should spend three seasons in the field thick."

The lords preceded Lucy and Edmund from the tent. Peter could hardly hear the speakers who announced them, for the sound of cheering and applauding was not softened by the velvet walls. He barely caught his own: _"... and welcome to the gloried High King, who has returned victorious from the far North to find a most gracious assembly gathered, honouring his noble land with devoted celebration. Presented: Her Majesty Queen Susan and His High Majesty King Peter!" _They left the empty tent arm-in-arm, to shouting and whooping that rose up into the night.

It was, as Edmund had warned him, a bit much. But Peter suspected this was partly to do with Susan and Lucy; his sisters had spared no detail in accommodating the front lawns to the celebration. The current number residing at Cair – all the army included – had been far too many to hold in the Great Hall. Accordingly tables and chairs had been arranged out on the Western Lawns; the trees strung with lights and ribbons; and the wide field trimmed for ease of dancing.

From the dais improvised on raised stones, he addressed those gathered.

"Friends, it pleases me greatly to be back at Cair Paravel among those I love best. This afternoon I heard tell of all that has transpired during my absence, so firstly I must commend you, O noble Archenlanders, for rising to the defence of my beloved royal sister. And then I must make known my very deep regret that, unlike you, my fellows, I was not witness to your most glorious victory or its spectacle conclusion. Queen Lucy assures me it was a very good show. . ." He continued in this manner for several minutes, until his words were sufficient and the dancing began.

The musicians were spread among the flower gardens – Lucy's doing, he supposed. Unseen, but with a lovely unity, the lower strings and bass drumbeats began their slow, sighing melodies. Then came the flutes and fiddles and lyres, joined last of all by the Narnian horns, strong and merry. How welcome was the sound, and the dance! It was wonderful to move according to soft and flowing music instead of battle chants and his own pounding heart. The crimson silk of Susan's dress flew around him and Peter marvelled again at the beauty he had missed.

It happened during the dancing – a fitting thing, Peter later thought. He had moved then from his sisters as partners and began to favour the visiting ladies of Archenland. The music had swelled, changed; he opened his arms to receive the next one and she spun into his embrace. Brown hair, the colour of sugar, was all he could discern before the song swept them away. Only after the tempo calmed did Peter gaze into her face at last.

The sight was incredible. He had never seen such eyes – no perfect mixture of green and gold and brown as these. In studying them, Peter actually forgot himself for a few moments and strayed from the beat. With all grace, the lady adjusted her own movements to accommodate for his missteps.

"Your pardon," he told her, once he had recovered himself.

"No, your Majesty," she said. Her voice had the lilt of Archenlander gentry. "It is I who beg pardon, for we dance without introduction."

He smiled. "It bears no matter, my lady. I am Peter, High King of Narnia."

A blush rose in her cheeks, and she dipped her head in appropriate honour. "Lily, your Majesty, of the Parvum house. "

"Well met, my lady."

It was conversational speaking, but Peter had been too long away from court to be tired of it. Edmund had complained over such pleasantries for years – but Peter did not mind them. He gladly went among the lords and ladies present, asking after families and lands, how they liked the festivities.

Supper was a splendid thing. Susan had arranged all his favourite dishes; the table was heaped tall with sides of beef and venison, boars' heads, soups and jellies of every flavour, roasted peacock and lobster potpies, and breads baked with the imprint of his royal seal. To a man whose breakfast had been porridge seasoned with last night's stew, this was a grand utopia of delight. Peter did not usually have a sweet tooth, but tonight he indulged: months of salted bacon and biscuit rather dulled the palette. Lucy laughed at him for this. She was a lover of sugared things and he did not often match her taste, but now he feasted as she did, on blackberry pie and pineapple tart and honeyed cakes (Lucy's favourite). There were also the pomegranates and sweetmeats and flower wines that Susan and Edmund had brought from Calormen. Laughter echoed around the lawns, and Peter noticed the one whose eyes were most extraordinary.

"Tell me, what of that lady there?" he asked Lucy, pulling apart marzipan and getting extremely sticky fingers in the process. "Do you know her?"

She followed his gaze. "Only in name – Lily of Archenland. She has been Edmund's friend these past seven days, and is to stay further with Selinah and the rest."

Dessert concluded with a performance by the Silver Oak players, whose reputation was most accomplished. However it quickly became clear that tonight's showing would not be one of the company's renowned tragedies. They were, unfortunately, performing a piece based on his own exploits in the North.

The High King was played by a Dwarf in gold armour, who carried a smaller version of Peter's red shield. His centaur generals, Rogan, Oreius and Cadmus were played by Dogs in arms. Towering above them were three Giants, who were really Bears wearing masks with gruesome expressions.

Peter exchanged a look with Susan; she raised a very telling eyebrow, and turned to watch the performance.

The Dwarfish High King marched before the Giants. "We have had enough! Our royal sister faces peril from the South, and you will not keep us a moment longer."

He spoke with a bold, pompous manner and gestured wildly with sword in hand. Behind his smile Peter was groaning. It reeked of Edmund's humour.

"Will you surrender?"

The tallest Bear let out a roar and waved his club threateningly, eliciting titters from the crowd. Lucy was giggling outright. In the corner of his eye, he saw that Edmund had a fist clamped over his mouth, and even Susan was smiling broadly.

"Very well," said the Dwarfish High King, and tossed up his sword in a slow arc. The blade sliced off the mask's elongated nose. Crying out, the Bear Giant fell to his knees before the Narnian party, and the others behind him followed suit.

"Ha!" cried the Dwarf, catching up his sword again. The Dogs barked and cheered. "To Narnia!" charged the Dwarf, and led his generals offstage.

Peter leaned behind Susan and whispered fiercely, "A wonderful picture of the campaign, Edmund, though I'm sure you know it was nothing of the like."

"I read your letters, my lord. We endeavoured to make it as accurate as possible."

The court burst into applause when the players returned to take their bows, but Peter was grateful when the dancing resumed again. This music was wilder: Some courtiers had shed their shoes to better leap among the grasses, others had adorned themselves with bits of the floral decoration.

When he was matched again with Lady Lily he said, "I hear that you are a great friend of my brother's."

"A new friend, hoping to be proved great."

"I see. And has he comported himself honourably?"

"King Edmund is a kind and gracious host, though his wit is unlike any I have encountered."

Peter laughed. "Would that you were first to say so, my lady."

This Lily was well-spoken, Peter saw, and it was likely the reason Edmund chose her for a friend. She smiled an easy smile and her eyes were very warm.

"The Parvum line, you told of earlier? Do I know your father?"

"That is a likely thing. He is Count Berhil, from the mountain towns."

"A good man, and a long friend to King Lune. I knew him many years ago. You may send my greetings."

She inclined her head. "Well met, your Majesty."

"If you are his daughter, are you not a countess?"

A smile. "At court I am. But there is my mother, Majesty."

The music swelled and partners switched again. He passed her to a bearded lord and received a red-haired lady in return, and the dance went on.

That was the last he saw of her until the end of the evening. Susan, barefooted now, was still dancing with those remaining and Edmund was with the generals, drinking and sharing tales. Peter walked with Lucy leaning sleepily into his side. They called goodnight to those they met along the path: courtiers grouped around stone benches and statues; fauns in flowerbeds, lightly dozing; Dryads draped over the topiary; trees full of tipsy, cackling owls.

She passed them arm-in-arm with young Lady Selinah. Lucy reached to clasp hands with her cheery friend, and Peter was met with those startling eyes once again.

"High King," Lady Lily said, and curtseyed.

He smiled. "Countess."

A moment later he and Lucy had gone on; but he caught a glimpse of her blush before she turned away.

* * *

**A/N: **The scene with the theatre troupe is a direct result of nudging from rthstewart and Metonomia. I tried to fit in something naughty having to do with marzipan(s), but my efforts yielded a scene that mocked Peter instead. Go figure.

Hopefully this wasn't too hard to swallow. These early chapters are tough to write; everything sounds cheesy! Truth be told I'm not all that fond of my OC, but then it's not about her – it's about Peter and Edmund, and what effect Lily has on them. Thanks for reading! Feedback is much appreciated.


End file.
